Mycroft Holmes Meets Magic
by the consulting werewolf
Summary: One fine day, the elder Holmes gets to know about magic...


Mycroft Holmes is not unlike his little brother. He too believed in what he saw and deduced. And yes, he was smarter than his little brother any day, _no arguments_.

Today is a good day. He had lost two pounds, he had checked the scales before breakfast (a toast and just an omelet made of egg whites, and coffee with no sugar). His tiresome, insufferable brother was below radar now, thankfully. That John Watson had checked out clean. He had nothing to worry about. His work at the office was done. Now he would head home and have a light dinner (he has not reached his ideal weight).

Before leaving, he decides to have the last cup of tea. He buzzes the intercom, "Anthea, a cup of Earl Grey please."

His superbly efficient secretary appears five minutes later with the steaming china cup in hand. He takes it and leans back in his chair, feeling oddly content. Yes, today was a very good day. He sips his tea.

Then his good day takes a new turn. His is half facing the fireplace. The flames had died down hours ago. All that remained was the sooty residue. Suddenly it comes to life with roaring fluorescent green flames.

Mycroft sits straight in his chair. His mouth drops open. And the next thing that happens makes him drop his last cup of the day which shatters into pieces on the hardwood floor and the tea soaks in the foot rug.

A man appears out of the flames. He is tall and his skin is the colour of dark chocolate. He has an odd attire though. Long amethyst robes decorated with delicate silver stitching.

The man extracts a long wooden stick from under his robe and mutters some incoherent words under his breath. After that is done, he turns around to look at Mycroft, who is still sitting there with an incomprehensible expression (it was translated into shock by the intruder but no one has seen that expression on Mycroft Holmes face to confirm). He speaks first, "Hello Mr. Holmes. My name is Kingsley Shacklebott." He stretches a hand towards Mycroft who right now, could not trust his limbs to function and hoist him up. Kingsley understands his predicament, "If I were you, I would be equally stupefied."

Mycroft gulps. He cannot behave like this. There must be a very good explanation for this. He is hallucinating all this. He is very tired after all. Or Anthea had mixed something in his tea (impossible, but who can say for sure?). He says, "Who are you?"

"I told you, Kingsley Shacklebott. Minister of the British Ministry of Magic."

What? Mycroft wonders. He says aloud, "Excuse me? Ministry of Magic? Magic? Is this some kind of hoax?"

Kingsley chuckles, "Next you will wonder if those flames were a very convincing parlor trick!"

Mycroft frowns. He finally stands up and walks up to the fireplace. He kneels down and minutely searches its insides for any kind of entrapment or device. When he comes up empty, a sudden doubt creeps in. This, all of this, cannot possibly be true, can it be? No. he shakes his head. He does not have enough evidence to come to a conclusion. He crosses his arms and squints at Kingsley, "Prove it."

Kingsley eyebrows dance in amusement. This Muggle is certainly different than the Muggle Prime Minister. It was a good decision to change their Muggle emissary. Kingsley whips out his wand again and says audibly this time, "Reparo."

Mycroft looks in complete awe as the broken teacup becomes whole again. Even the skeptical part in his brain wonders if all this is indeed real. Kingsley speaks, "All of your Muggle prime ministers knew of our existence. Even the current one in power. But let's face it, when a man of action is required, there is no one better than you, is there?"

In spite of all this new development, the flattery reaches the point. Mycroft's chest puffs out a little. His brain, though, is filled with a million questions. He decides to ask one aloud, "I never knew of the Prime Minister's involvement?"

"He was bound to keep this a secret."

"Bound?"

"By fear of a higher power he could not fathom with ordinary excuses."

"Oh?" Mycroft wonders aloud. "What do you want with me then?"

"A connection. A bridge that we can cross when the Magic community needs Muggle assistance and vice versa. But this must be kept a secret between you and me."

This is still unbelievable to Mycroft. His mind is at war. The part which saw his cup repaired by 'magic' wants to believe this. But the part which has always been ruled by logic and facts refuses to believe in all this. He had his facts though, only logic still refused to yield. He never believed in such nonsense even when he was younger. He knew there were no Santa Clauses or tooth fairies or Easter bunnies. He was always too different from other kids. And now, suddenly this. It shook his entire belief system. He mutters as he rubs his face, "Next you know the tooth fairy is real."

Kingsley chuckles, "Not tooth fairies, no. But pixies are real."

Mycroft's head snaps back up, "What?"

"Never mind. I know you must have a lot of questions. Why don't we meet again, say tomorrow, here, and same time?"

Mycroft just nods his head. He almost stumbles when Kingsley disappears into thin air with a loud cracking noise. He blinks fast. He grips the table so hard, his knuckles are almost white. He engages in the breathing exercise he would usually do when Sherlock is up to his insufferable antics. And it is not working (it did not work either when Sherlock said he wanted to be a consulting detective…really now). Just to make sure, he gingerly touches the cup. He picks it up and scrutinizes it. It was broken. He did break it. True, he had not seen it breaking but he remembers registering a shattering sound when that man appeared. And how did he disappear like that?

That man with that funny name. Well, he does not get to judge. He is named Mycroft after all. But at least he does not wear purple robes. Was it all an elaborate hoax? It did not feel like one though. He sits down again in his chair and leans forward on his desk. He places his elbows on the desk and puts his face in his hands. He takes another deep breathe. Maybe he should go home and sleep on this. Maybe all that happened never really did occur. Yes, he needs to go home and sleep.

It is seven in the evening again. He had appeared at this hour yesterday. Mycroft paces in his office with his hands fisted at the back. He is torn. He feels crazy for believing that man will return. It is like he wants to but does not want to. If it is enough to give a man like Mycroft a headache, its effects on the normal human is just painful.

_Crack_. That sound again. He is here.

Shacklebott emerges from the bright green flames and offer Mycroft a benign smile. He says, "So Mr. Holmes shall we start your crash course on magic?"

Mycroft just sighs.


End file.
